


The Reichenbach Memory

by PandoraButler



Series: Sherlock One-Shots [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Crying, Don't Ask, F/M, Flashback, Freeform, I wrote this when I thought he was coming back in season 4, I'm sure you'll make it, Miss Me?, Pool scene, Post-Season/Series 03, did you miss me, jim is the best okay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2016-08-27
Packaged: 2019-02-03 03:17:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12739920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandoraButler/pseuds/PandoraButler
Summary: Sherlock becomes a paraplegic after a building collapses on him because of Jim Moriarty's scheme. John has to take care of Sherlock and try to convince the male that he still has a purpose in life.





	The Reichenbach Memory

The air was cool, cool enough to see your own breath. Neither of them made a sound. Their enemy was close by. They could  _sense_  them.  _Smell_  them. Maybe even  _taste_  them. The closet they hid in was small; each male pressed against the other.

"Sherlock, I think they've gone," the restless doctor fidgeted beside the consulting detective.

"Shhhh, John, be quiet, you'll give us away," Sherlock scolded.

It had been no less than 4 minutes since Sherlock got off that plane. It was no less than 3 seconds that he saw the infamous sign to the world, 'Did you miss me?' The answer was no, he most certainly did  _not_  miss Jim Moriarty. How could you miss the very thing that brings out your own destruction? The demon on your shoulder coaxing you into doing the crimes against man...if John was the light to Sherlock, Jim was most certainly the darkness

and darkness  _always_ swallows the light.

"Oh, Sherlock, don't be shy. I know you missed this," the voice came closer, "this little  _game_  of ours. I'm sure you thought death would be the end of me. You were wrong Sherlock. It's so depressing how  _ordinary_ you are. Come out, won't you? Stop playing hide-and-seek," Jim taunted the two. Sherlock and John knew very well they had been compromised. That didn't stop them from hearing the footsteps ringing out. It didn't stop them from holding their breath. It certainly didn't stop them from attempting to run away.

The duo waited for the steps, and, at the right moment they threw the door open. The closet door slammed into the face of the consulting criminal. I doubt he liked  _that_  very much. It was a distraction, a plot, the only thing important now was to  _leave_.

"Come, John," Sherlock grabbed the hand of his companion and ran. His legs were longer than the doctor's, causing John to stumble behind.

"Slow down!" John pleaded.

"No can do," Sherlock replied. There was a bomb placed somewhere in this building. Jim may think he is unpredictable, changeable, but Sherlock will  _always_  conquer. He will always  _win_. Sherlock has something Jim doesn't. Sherlock has something to  _protect_. And that makes one incredibly more powerful.

"You can run but you can't hide, Holmes," Jim's voice echoed through the corridor.

"John, we have to get out of this building,  _quick_ ," Sherlock warned. "It's going to blow."

They both had just reached the stairs; Jim was still on their tail. He wasn't chasing after them, no, he is far too cocky for that. Jim knew they were trapped. They couldn't escape the bomb. Why bother trying?

They were nearing the door. John's grasp on Sherlock's hand slowly slipped away. He couldn't keep up with the taller male. Sherlock turned to face him. Words were on the tip of his tongue. Everything happened so quickly, everything in slow motion. The building shook and the beams gave out. The blast gave a domino effect shattering everything in its path. Sherlock could see the roof crumbling, swallowing up John. Knowing John wouldn't react fast enough he quickly grabbed John's hand and tossed the doctor out of the way, all in one strong swoop. The momentum was enough to cause John to trip outside the building's door. John fell and watched as his best friend was being buried alive.

" ** _SHERLOCK_**!"

The only thought on his mind was the consulting detective. He couldn't care less about Jim. He didn't care about if he had gotten away. He didn't care about the safe house Jim had prepared for himself. He just wanted to see his friend; he wanted to know he would be alright.

John stood up and groggily ran to the building. He clawed at the debris, knowing it was impossible to do this on his own. He had to call for help. He needed to get assistance. But how? John wasn't carrying a cell phone. Lucky for him people had witnessed the crash. They were already working on calling for the help John so desperately needed.

"Sir, it's going to be okay, you need to calm down and let us do our job," some sort of emergency medical person placed a hand on John's shoulder. They tried comforting him. They tried pushing him away from Sherlock's place under the building. It didn't work in the slightest. He would not remove himself from that area.

"No, you don't understand, he is my friend.  _My friend._  You need to get him out! Now! I need to be here for him!" John tried to explain. He had gone through this once before, but, this time wasn't an act. Sherlock didn't plan anything and he really would  _die_. There was no trusting or believing involved. There were only the facts. The fact that Sherlock was indeed human. He was mortal. He can die, in the simplest, most normal way...an  _accident_. Could you even call this an accident? No. This was murder. Jim caused this. It's all  _Jim's_  fault.

"I understand, Sir, I really do," the medical person began again, "but you  _must_  understand. We have to do our jobs."

John left and watched them dig Sherlock out. He followed them into the ambulance. He rode with them to the hospital. Most importantly, he waited months for the detective to awaken. Sherlock was in a coma. Mycroft had started suggesting they pull the plug. John wouldn't have that.

"What are you saying!? He is your brother Mycroft! Don't you care?" John questioned, the anger in his voice was clear.

"It is time you started facing the facts, John. Sherlock isn't waking up. Time can't help him now. We can't let him stay like this. Look at him, John," Mycroft gestured to the state Sherlock was reduced to. He was lying in the hospital bed, pale, and lifeless. It was as if he had already died. There were needles in his arms, IVs, and other things. There was the standard mask-like object over his mouth, controlling his breathing. There was the slow sound of the beeping heart monitor, reminding John he was alive...but also reminding him that Sherlock was just a  _shell_.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes," John whispered under his breath.

"It doesn't matter what you  _believe,_  John. Face the facts. We're pulling the plug today. I've decided. It is my choice to make and I have," Mycroft walked out of the hospital room, the standard umbrella at his side. John watched the door close. He wouldn't have much time alone with his best friend so he must begin saying his farewells.

"Sherlock," John's voice cracked. He clenched his teeth and fists before sitting down next to the detective. "They don't believe you'll wake up. They think you're gone. I tried to tell them! I tried to convince them you aren't dead; that you  _will_ wake up. They won't believe me...so I have to say goodbye..." John un-clenched his fists and folded his hands. He tried to maintain his composure and continued.

"Sherlock, you wer- no, you  _are_  the smartest most arrogant man I've ever met. You're sarcastic and full of yourself. You're such a smartarse I don't know how I deal with you sometimes," John's voice was wavering. He can't come to terms with them killing Sherlock off this way. The emotions he felt right now are strong. Anger? Sadness? Regret? Which of these, or  _all_  of these? "But I do know, that you are my best friend, my best man, and the  _only_  consulting detective in the world. You risked your life for me;  _you died for me._ Now, I want you to  _live_  for me. Live you damned fool! Don't leave me again! Once was enough..."

John was so lost in his own farewells he didn't hear the heartbeat increasing. He didn't notice the fingers moving. He didn't see the eyelids flutter open. John was looking down; he was only looking at the ground. John couldn't stare at the limp body while talking or he would  _break_. It was only until he heard the nurses and medical assistants crashing through the door that he realized...yes...Sherlock _is_ awake _._

There were so many people flooding the room John was pushed away. He had hope.  _He had hope_. Sherlock lives.

John was with Sherlock the next few weeks through his recovery. He was with him every step of the way; it was like a dream to him. Six months he was with Sherlock everyday. Everyday he would sit by his friend just watching him; just morally supporting him. Sometimes he would talk and other times he would just silently wait. You could tell that John's health was depleting along with Sherlock's. Now that he was awake, John couldn't think about anything else. Mary was out of his mind completely. He just wanted his friend back to normal. He wanted, more than anything, to go on a case like they used to, doing crazy things. John wasn't even thinking of Moriarty. He didn't want revenge or anything of that sort. Not until, Sherlock was completely well, that is. Perhaps  _then_  he would  _begin_  considering the idea of revenge. But, until then, he would wait right here, in this seat, next to Sherlock.

A nurse pulled John aside for a moment. It seemed she had urgent news regarding Sherlock's recovery. "I have something that you should know," she began.

"Yes? What is it? Is it bad? Is there something wrong?"

"It seems the patient has had some damage to the spinal cord, but we don't know exactly how bad it is. I would like you to consider the possibility that he may be a paraplegic," John stared at the nurse. Was she telling the truth? Of course she was, why would a nurse lie about this? That wouldn't make any sense. Sherlock, a paraplegic, it's not that bad really. Sure, they might have difficulty with cases, Sherlock wouldn't be able to do as much, but him being dead would be much worse, right? Yes, to John anything was fine, as long as his friend was  _alive_. They can get through this, that is what friendship is all about anyway. It's the act of bringing your friends up from their abyss. Rebuilding them. Being their crutch.

The nurse left him standing there outside of Sherlock's room. They were doing something to him but John wasn't paying attention to that. He was watching Sherlock. The detective stared at them with a solemn expression. Ever since he had woken up he he wasn't the same. Something was off, but John couldn't quite place his finger on it. The chances were high that Sherlock had already figured out the news. Perhaps it was an already known fact that Sherlock couldn't move his legs.

"Hello, Sherlock. How are you?" John gave a weak smile. It was only him and Sherlock in this room now.

"How am I? Fine. Just dandy. How are you?" Sherlock looked distant, not completely there, his voice laced with a twinge of sarcasm. Insincerity. What should John do to revive his friend? What  _could_  he do?

"Okay, but nothing was really wrong with me in the first place."

" _Nothing really wrong with you?_ " Sherlock immediately turned his head to look John in the eyes. "You look worse than me, up here," Sherlock pointed to his temple. He was obviously referring to the contents of his skull, or rather, John's skull.

"I assure you that is not the case," John attempted.

"I'm guessing they have told you," Sherlock changed the subject so John didn't have to.

"Told me what?"

"Don't pretend, John. You can't fool me anyway. I know my condition. Do you think I wouldn't notice the fact I can't feel my toes?" Sherlock's tone was a little harsh but John ignored it.  _Anyone_  would be angry in this situation.

"They said it was just  _possible_ , maybe you're overthinking it? Making a big deal out of nothing?" John had a habit of believing in false hope. He was the only one who could believe, in this duo, so he would. He would  _believe_  for the both of them.

Sherlock just stared. His gaze empty. He didn't have the motivation to argue. Sherlock, who always has the last say in every conversation, was  _silent_.

When Sherlock was fully recovered, (as well as he could be anyway) John took care of him at 221B Baker St. Mary and him both stayed there to assist him with the change. It isn't easy loosing the ability to walk, so, until he was fully accustomed to this fact, John felt it necessary to be there for him. Mary felt the same.

"I can't do this anymore, John," Sherlock said one day. He was staring out the window while John sat in his chair. The doctor had been drinking some tea and reading the newspaper. He'd expected this conversation to come eventually; he was just hoping that it wouldn't be  _today_. Some other day would be better. Some other day off in the far distance. What was he supposed to say to comfort this man before him? Nothing he could say would be able to make Sherlock feel any better about his condition.

"Can't do what, Sherlock?" he asked, even though he knew  _exactly_  what Sherlock meant.

"This," Sherlock flailed his arms in an up and down movement, gesturing to his legs.

"Sure you can, it isn't the end of the world," the words were halfhearted. No, it wasn't the end of the world. It was the end of  _his_ world. Sherlock hadn't been able to adjust. His boredom increased drastically. There was nothing he could do now that he couldn't walk. He felt useless. He felt like utter garbage. He couldn't solve cases, or challenge his mind in any way. What was the point in living a life like that? There was no point, not to Sherlock.

"Don't be such a sour old grump, Sherlock!" Mary spoke up. "I'm sure there is some doctor out there that can help you. Someone skilled in this stuff! It can't be  _too_ bad. Didn't the nurse say there was  _some possibility_ to you being a paraplegic? She didn't carve out your fate in stone."

John grasped again onto the thread of hope. It didn't matter to him whether it was false because they began to search for the best doctors in the world regardless. Mycroft helped, even if he didn't seem all that interested in his brother, he did care, at least a  _little_ bit.

They went to doctor after doctor. Sherlock had surgery after surgery. Each and every one of them was loosing patience, loosing  _hope_. Everyone except John. He refused to give up. If Sherlock refused to accept his fate, John would refuse with him. Even if Sherlock did accept his fate, John wouldn't. John only wanted his friend to be happy.

John heard a crash in the kitchen. It was followed by a loud groan and various amounts of crude language. John rushed to Sherlock's aid. He was certain that Sherlock had fallen or injured himself in some way.

"Sherlock?" he questioned upon entering the kitchen. Sherlock appeared to be fine. Glass remains were splayed across the floor. He dropped something but he didn't fall with it.

John breathed a sigh of relief. It didn't seem like his detective friend was injured  _physically_. His mind, however, that was a different matter entirely. He was becoming bored, restless, and tired of  _everything_. Nothing was working and nothing was helping. John would find Sherlock sitting,  _staring_ , out the window. He wasn't looking at the street...he was thinking...he was in his mind palace. Sherlock would stay there for days on end. Yes,  _days_. He would escape only coming back when his physical body demanded it. Sherlock pushed his limits. John often wondered what it was he was doing in there. What was he looking for in his mind palace? What could there be? Was it related to himself? Or was it simply an escape? John knew his friend better than anyone, but not enough to completely  _understand_. It is impossible to  _fully_  understand someone.

"Are you okay?" John questioned. Sherlock still didn't respond. It seemed as if he was searching for the right words.

"I don't know what I am anymore," he answered.

"You're Sherlock Holmes," John replied. No matter  _what_  happened to him, he would always be the same thing he always was. Though, it might take a while to return him to whatever 'normal' is for Sherlock.

The consulting detective laughed. There wasn't any life in it. He was just laughing to laugh, to try and lighten the mood. It didn't help. Never did. It just worried John more.

"Mycroft told me," Sherlock said. To what was he referring to? John tried to think; nothing came to mind. "He told me you wouldn't let him pull the plug." Oh. That. It seemed insignificant. Why would that be so strange? Obviously John wouldn't allow Sherlock to die. He would never wish that upon anyone. 

"I really wish you hadn't," Sherlock muttered, putting his head in his hands. The words themselves took a while to reach John. He pondered if he had heard them correctly. This guy. This detective. This sociopathic fool. He really  _doesn't_  care about the people he leaves behind. He doesn't think about anything he says. He just  _says_  it. It infuriates John. How many times does he have to loose Sherlock before Sherlock gets it? When will Sherlock realize how important he truly is?

"Well, excuseme for wanting to keep my friend _alive_ ," John scoffed.

"This isn't living,  _John_. This is  _existing_. I am here but there is nothing to me. I can't  _do_  anything!"

There is nothing more annoying to a person than living  _for_  them. There is nothing more annoying than putting all of your time and energy into a single soul and have them toss it all aside. That's what Sherlock did. That's what Sherlock  _does_. He has a habit of tossing things aside without realizing their true value. He ignored the simple facts to human nature. He is ignorant of the importance relationships contain. Granted, it's tremendously difficult to get another human to understand precisely what their worth is, but for Sherlock it is nearly  _impossible_. Sentiment, is something the consulting detective would rather do away with. But,  _sentiment,_ is exactly what Sherlock needs the most. 

Looking at this empty shell, the remains of Sherlock Holmes, John didn't know what to do. He didn't know what to say. He was pissed off. That is for sure, but there wasn't any way to form sentences due to his outrage. His anger had gotten the best of him. He smirked, smiled? I'm sure you know the one. He has done it multiple times. John gets angry, blows his top, he doesn't frown or scowl; instead, he has that weird little twitch of the lip.

"You should have let me die," Sherlock lifted his head to look John in the eyes. There was no emotion on his face. He truly was an empty  _shell_. A fraction of what he once was. The doctor flipped out. No self-control for him. He punched Sherlock right in the face forcing the wheelchair to wobble. John then proceeded to attack the detective. He tackled him. The wheelchair fell backwards causing John to fall on top of Sherlock. Perfect strangling conditions.

"You want to die so badly? I'll kill you myself!" John spat. Sherlock was clawing at John's hands to no avail. "So you don't want to die after all,  _do you_?! Fat chance you have to stop me!"

"No, it's not that," Sherlock attempted to speak. His eyes were twinkling with the former light they once had. Naturally, it would take something like this before Sherlock was brought back to his senses. "I'd rather die in a more flashy way. Why do you think I jumped off a building for all the world to see?"

John tightened his grasp.

"Good God, John! You're really trying to kill me!" It was a wonder Sherlock could speak at all, considering his situation...and the seemingly impossibility of the circumstances.

"I  _bloody well_  have the right!"

Mary stepped in, she had just left the flat to go grocery shopping. A small matter of business. Her returning to find her husband strangling his best friend didn't shock her too much, surprisingly. The first time she met Sherlock something similar happened between the two. Although something like this hadn't occurred recently, this certainly wouldn't be the last time John got angry at Sherlock.

Carefully placing the grocery bags down on the table, Mary then assisted Sherlock in the attempt of removing the furious John, (one must protect the food first before everything else). She was successful, (being an ex-assassin helps when dealing with this soldier, to say the least).

"What has gotten into you two?! I wasn't even gone that long!" Mary questioned.

"He started it," Sherlock and John said pointing to each other simultaneously.

"Quite frankly, I don't care  _who_ started it. If you two don't make up right now, I am going to  _finish_  it!" Mary stated. She was like a mother in these situations. Congratulations, Mary, you are quite possibly the only person who can keep John from killing Sherlock. How does that make you feel?

John wasn't going to refuse his wife, "I'm sorry, Sherlock," he said. It was a painful thing for a guy to say. The situation was entirely Sherlock's fault in his opinion. But, Sherlock also felt that the situation was  _John's_  fault, since, John started it, obviously.

"Apologies," Sherlock muttered. We all know how difficult it is for Sherlock to say the words 'I'm sorry' so John and Mary just had to settle for this instead. The duo both thought that it was each other's fault for this situation. John took things out of proportion and Sherlock was being an idiot. A spectacular genius version of an idiot.

"Very good," Mary clapped her hands together, "now, shall you help him up? Or shall I?"

" _DAMN MY LEGS_! I'll help myself up! I'm  _not_  a child," Sherlock pouted, precisely like a child. He grabbed onto the arms of the wheelchair and attempted to use his upper body strength to pull him up, but, the wheels of the chair moved. The end result was Sherlock falling flat onto his face. John and Mary couldn't help themselves from laughing. The situation wasn't funny, but like all good friends, laughter is  _key_.

...

_It's cold, dark, scary, dreary, eerie, whatever you'd like to think. The air was damp, was it going to rain? It is hard to tell exactly. Where is John? Where is he? He himself doesn't know his location._ _Buildings form around him but the only one with any significance is right in front of him._

_St. Bart's Hospital._

_John stands there, remembering exactly what has happened. The feeling of the cellphone to his skin is still present. This was where he first met Sherlock Holmes. This is where Sherlock Holmes said goodbye as well. The same hospital; different occasions. It's no wonder Jim Moriarty chose this place. This is where they met him for the first time too. All three of them had a connection to this building._

_The phone rings, it is Sherlock, no doubt. John picks it up. He knows what is going to happen next but he can't stop it. It doesn't matter how he changes the words he says or the actions he does, the end result is always the same..._

_"John."_

_"Sherlock?! What are you doing? Get down from there right now!"_

_"Be careful what you wish for, John," Sherlock stepped into visible sight. He was standing, so, this is indeed a memory. A distorted vision would be more accurate. The words may be different but the end result is the same. Sherlock always jumps._

_"What are you doing up there? Where is Moriarty?" John tries to understand, he tries to comprehend. It doesn't work. It never will work._

_"I'm a fake, John."_

_"Sherlock, no you aren't. You aren't a fake. How could you be?! You knew about my sister the first time we met. Right? Right Sherlock? Remember?"_

_"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"Don't give me that Sherlock! You could. I know you could..."_

_"This phone call, it's, um, it's my note. S'what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note? Leave a note when?"_

_"Goodbye, John," John watches. He doesn't understand what is about to happen next. Each time he has had this dream, has seen this happen, why can't he change it? Why hasn't he moved sooner? Is he really in awe of this moment? Why does he always talk on the phone? He should know by now...he should be able to react quicker, but he doesn't. His brain doesn't allow the end result to change. It never does. It never will._

_The scene changes, ever so slightly, it sort of resets itself. Sherlock isn't standing on the ledge. He is sitting with a wheelchair behind him. John is still staring, looking up at him, phone still in his hand._

_"Sherlock, what do you think you're doing?"_

_"You should have let Mycroft pull the plug, John, you should have let him kill me," Sherlock spoke. There was no getting out of this one. He was serious this time. "I can't live like this, John. I can't do it. I tried and I failed."_

_John looked away. He turned his head. He wasn't going to live through this scene for a second time. When he looked back, he wasn't at St. Bart's. John was in Sherlock's flat. The one they shared. 221B Baker St. He stared, confused, something was different about this place. It was empty. No signs of life at all._

_The doctor sat in his chair, looked up, and jumped out of his skin. Jim Moriarty was sitting in Sherlock's place. That bothered John. Why did he think he had the right to sit there? That isn't a place for him. They are not the same person. They will never be the same, not in John's eyes._

_"Hello, John," he spoke, sipping tea from a tray John hadn't noticed._

_"I don't really_ _owe_ _you  anything, but it's fun to play with other people's toys, you know?" Jim smiled. "They always get so upset. So angry. I love watching the way they react," Jim stared at John, looking into his soul before finishing, "especially _ _ Sherlock _ _."_

_John stiffened in his seat. He didn't like where this was going. What did Moriarty want? Why was he here? Is he going to kidnap him? What did he mean by 'it's fun to play with other people's toys'? John isn't a toy. John is a person. A human being._

_"Now, now, don't give me that face. Lighten up a bit, won't you? This is a big day for you and I. Sherlock went and kicked the bucket. Do you miss him? It's sad, isn't it? I really liked Sherlock. He and I had a bond no one would understand," Moriarty sipped his tea. "It's scary to know you don't understand it either. How does that make you feel? You are normal. Sherlock is brilliant. Even in death he will always be the one people remember. You're just 'Dr. Watson' the sidekick. Who needs to know about you?" Jim smirked. He knew he was getting to John. John knew he knew. It was easy to read John, everything showed on his face._

_"What do you want?" John growled._

_"What do I want? What_ _do you_ _want? What are you expecting? I'm just here to reminisce about good ol' pal. Don't you believe me? I have nothing against you. Like I said before, I don't_ _owe_ _you  anything."_

_The doctor was very skeptical. This guy always had something up his sleeve. He watched as Moriarty left the flat. He watched carefully, knowing that he couldn't deduce anything. Something about this guy always seemed strange. The same could be said for Sherlock though..._

_Back to St. Bart's again. This time John was on the roof. He was watching the display between Sherlock and Moriarty. He looked down and noticed he was slightly transparent. They can't see him. Is this what it was like? Was this the conversation they had together? He would never know; Sherlock wasn't likely to tell him._

_"Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a think I didn't want to," Moriarty said._

_"Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you._ **_Prepared to do anything._ ** _Prepared to_ **_burn_ ** _. Prepared to do what the_ **_ordinary_ ** _people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell?_ **_I shall not disappoint you._ ** _"_

_"Nah," Jim said. "You talk big but you're_ **_ordinary_ ** _. You're so ordinary. How could you not be? You're on the side of the angels..."_

_"I may be on the side of the angels," Sherlock said, "but don't think for_ **_one second_ ** _that I am one of them," Jim turns to look at John after this. He is staring at him. John is transparent but it feels as though Moriarty knows._

_Sherlock is in a wheelchair now. Jim smirks. John grimaces._

_"It has been so long, hasn't it? I have you all on_ _ strings _ _, isn't that lovely?" Moriarty laughs at his own statement. The strings are visible. "I am the puppeteer, the marionettist. And you're all my puppets, my marionettes," He pulls a string and Sherlock stands. Jim forces him to walk; it clearly hurts Sherlock. The detective can't walk on his own. He can't move his own legs. Moriarty rubs the fact in his face before having Sherlock move to the ledge of the roof._

_He isn't facing the John on the ground. He is facing the John on the roof. Sherlock is looking past John. He can't see John but Moriarty can. This fact is tormenting them both. Sherlock senses that John is there, but, what is he supposed to do about it? Sherlock can't even move on his own now. Simply knowing will not help him._

_"You can't do anything for each other. Your fate is sealed," with that Jim cuts a string. Sherlock staggers trying so hard to gain control of his legs but lacking the ability to do so. He falls._

_"Sherlock!" John calls. The strings force him to stay in that one spot. He can't even help Sherlock while being on the same roof._

...

John sits up in his bed. He is sweating from the dream he had just experienced. It all felt so real. How was he to know that this wasn't another dream? A dream inside of a dream in which he was dreaming? Maybe he is someone else's dream or in some other world. What if he was in someone's imagining? Then what?

Sherlock? Sherlock. Moriarty. Jim. Strings. St. Bart's. Falling. Dying. Anger. Resentment. Hatred. So many thoughts ran through John's head. So much confusion for what he'd just witnessed. So much fear that it would become reality. 

John looks around his room, realizing that it is indeed  _his_ room. Mary is sleeping soundly next to him. John lies back down and closes his eyes. He can't fall asleep after something like that, but he should at least  _try_.

The image comes to him again, and again, and again, and again, so John gives up. The doctor gets out of his bed and walks down the stairs to the kitchen. If he can't sleep, he might as well deal with it. Perhaps a nice cup of tea will calm him down.

Upon reaching the kitchen, John can tell something is off. Something is  _wrong_. It must be his instinct kicking in. He notices Sherlock's door is slightly ajar and continues his quest. Why would Sherlock have his door open? He didn't go anywhere. Why would he this time? No, that wasn't entirely strange. Sherlock would be the one to do that without a moment's notice.

Instinct kicking in again, John walked to the open door. He slowly pushed it and entered the room. Sherlock was gone. Without a trace. Just up and left. John was angry at first. Why would Sherlock leave without even a  _note_? Where was he going? All of the anger subsided when he noticed the wheelchair in the corner. Sherlock only has  _one_  wheelchair. How would he leave if he can't  _walk_?

Abduction.

Sherlock Holmes has been abducted.

John frantically searched the room for any sort of a clue. No one would do this without reason. There has to be a note or something.

A small piece of paper slipped out from the bed-sheets.

**Dear John,**

**You don't mind if I call you that right? Nah, of course you don't. It's a little late for me to be asking that question, seeing as to how I've already called you John.**

**_John_ ** **.**

**I'm sure you've noticed by now but...Sherlock is missing. Isn't he? Yes, that's me.** **_You're welcome._ ** ***laughs* If you'd like to get your detective back, I suggest you go to the place listed on the back of this card. You should already know it, but I have gone through the trouble of writing down the address, just for you. <3 (Aren't I sweet?)**

**Should you decide that the trip isn't worth it, I'm giving you a little inspiration, your child, the one you let stay at a relative's house...the one you left so you could take care of Sherlock. The one you and your wife forgot about. I've got a sniper to them right now. So just be a dear, and come, would you? c:**

**Sin celery, (Oh, shut up John. I know what I wrote. Don't judge me, honestly. Get a life.)**

**Jim xx**

Crushing the note in his hand, John grabbed a coat and rushed out the door. What was the point in changing out of his pajamas? Sherlock went to the Buckingham Palace in a sheet. John can go to help Sherlock in his jammies. Deal with it.

Opening the door to the designated area, John knew it immediately. It was the pool. The pool where they met Jim Moriarty for what he  _really_ was. Oh, how the tables have turned. John gets to be the one in Sherlock's position. Will there be bombs this time too? Knowing Jim, the probability is high.

"Hello, John, good of you to make it," Jim greeted.

Glaring, John asks, "Where's Sherlock?"

"Oh, don't be like that, John. Let's at least talk a bit first," Jim pouts. John doesn't respond, he just watched Moriarty, waiting for him to try and pull something, (like he always does).

Moriarty sighs, "Ugh,  _finnnnnnneee_. I'll let you see your dearly beloved. Honestly, learn to live a little..." Moriarty points to a door. It looks a lot like a closet of some sort.

"You locked him in a closet!?" John questions, slightly confused.

"Oh come now, he had to come out eventually, it wasn't permanent," Jim winks.

John opens the door to the closet. Sherlock is in there, cramped, in a very uncomfortable looking position. There are blood stains on his clothing and small wounds all over him.

"What happened to you?!"

"Oh, he won't answer you, he is a bit unconscious. Don't worry though, it was nothing serious. I just had a bit of fun is all," Moriarty answers on behalf of the unresponsive detective.

John stared confused. What exactly did Moriarty  _do_? And for what reason? Why did he kidnap Sherlock? Why did he want them both here? What exactly was this guy planning? The doctor let Sherlock's body fall onto him so he could drag him out and lie him on the floor. Sherlock was lying face-down on his stomach, (John didn't bother to turn him over and check the wounds).

As John was a bit preoccupied with the discovery of Sherlock, he hears the sound of a gun. That odd little 'click' you hear when the safety is turned off and it's ready to fire. John brings his attention back to Moriarty, who is pointing a gun at  _him_. The army doctor slowly rises and steps away from Sherlock. He stares at the criminal mastermind; waiting for his next move.

"You know, if there is one thing I've learned in this relationship, it is that I made a mistake," Jim begins. "I never should have let you live the day we were first here," he says as he gestures to the pool beside the trio.

"What are you saying?" John asks but Moriarty shoots the floor beside him, (to shut John up). It makes the army doctor jump. He clearly wasn't expecting  _that_.

"iF YOU'D shUT uP....I was getting there," Jim sighs, disappointed in John's impatience. "I realize now, that the only way to burn Sherlock, to completely destroy him, is to kill  _you_."

John stares confused.

"You're a little more than slow, aren't you?" Jim rolls his eyes. "You're the only  _friend_ Sherlock has ever  _had_. Sure, there are others, sure, yeah,  _obviously,_ but making Sherlock kill himself for them didn't work. He raised himself up from the dead because  _you_ asked him to. That 'one more miracle.' He won't have any motivation if you're gone _,_ " Jim smirks. "He'll be  _broken._ "

"How do you know about that?" John is even more confused now. How would Jim know about his little speech to Sherlock's grave? Moriarty just smiles and pretends he didn't hear the question. Jim continues to point the gun directly at John. They stare at each other for a few seconds, and then, Moriarty  _shoots_.

...

_"Well, what do we have here?" a voice speaks._

_Who is talking? Why are they talking? Where am I? What is happening? I feel quite a bit of pain. Was that a gun I heard?_

_"Alright, Sherlock, don't you think it is time for you to wake up? Someone's had a bit too much beauty sleep," the voice continues._

_I can't move. My legs. My arms. My whole body. I'm paralyzed. Was I drugged? Why can't I move? Was I ever able to move to begin with?_

_The voice sighs._

_"Sherlock?" a hand touches the consulting detective._

_The voice is female so is the hand. That still doesn't tell me where I am. I was in a wheelchair. I was in the flat. Is that chlorine I smell?_

_"Sherlock, listen to me, would you? Stop thinking. Stop trying to work this all out. Look in front of you for once."_

_In front? Wh- oh. Jim? John. There is a gun...no the gun has been fired. I can't do anything about that._

_"So you'll let your boyfriend die?"_

_"He isn't gay..."_

_"No, but I am," Sherlock finally turns to look at the voice. Irene Adler, in the flesh, well, sort of._

_"What are you doing here?"_

_"The real question is...what are you doing there?"_

_"I can't move my body."_

_"No you can move your body. You just can't move your legs, at least, you think you can't."_

_"I've gone through many surgeries. I can't move my legs."_

_"You've gone through many surgeries. You can move your legs," Irene smiles. "Ever think about the unthinkable? Maybe you didn't _ **_want_ ** _to move your legs. The last problem, is you."_

_"Psychosomatic?"_

_Irene nods._

_"That's ridiculous."_

_"Is it now?"_

_"Why would I not want to walk?"_

_"You're the one with the mind palace. You should know yourself better than anyone. Answer that for yourself. That's why I'm here, isn't it? Trying to help you help yourself."_

_"Why would I think of you?"_

_"Because, I'm the impossible girl. I'm the woman who beat you. I'm one of the few things that don't make sense. Of course you would think of me," Irene laughs at the look of confusion on Sherlock's face before continuing. "Now, what do you say? Shouldn't you try and save your boyfriend over there?"_

...

**_"How do you know about that?" John is now even more confused. How would Jim know about his little speech to Sherlock's grave? Moriarty just smiles, pretending he didn't hear the question. Jim continues to point the gun directly at John. They stare at each other for a few seconds...and Moriarty shoots..._ **

Sherlock was already standing at this point. He wasn't that far away from his doctor, and the doctor wasn't that far away from the pool. People can do impossible things in intense situations. Sherlock managed to do just that, he got over his paraplegic self, and pushed John into the pool. The detective took the bullet instead, whilst falling into the pool as well.

John watched his friend fall into the water, still trying to understand how he had been able to walk. Was it willpower alone? No, that couldn't be right, could it?

"John! A little help would be nice," Sherlock grumbled, while holding onto the side of the pool.

"Don't tell me," John said, "the only consulting detective in the world, a high functioning sociopath, and you can't  _swim_?"

Sherlock scoffed, "I was in a wheelchair for an extended period of time, just because I managed to save your life, that in no way means that I can move my legs properly. I just took a bullet for you, the  _least_  you can do is  _help_  me."

"Whatever you say, Sherlock," John laughed. He swam over to the childish man and helped the both of them out of the pool.

"Did you see where he went?" Sherlock questioned.

"No, but I daresay that isn't the last of him."

"Definitely not."

Sherlock and John smiled to each other. They had gone through a lot in the past few months. They would go through a lot more in the coming years, but they'll always have each other, no matter how battered or bruised they'd become.


End file.
